


What Thunderbirds Do

by gnimmish



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 13:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15864174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gnimmish/pseuds/gnimmish
Summary: Newt knows more about the mating rituals of most of his creatures than he does those of actual human beings - though that may not be such a bad thing.





	What Thunderbirds Do

**Author's Note:**

> This snippet came to me at approximately 2AM this morning - so don't blame me, blame my insomnia riddled brain for the idea that Newt would take inspiration from Thunderbirds when it comes to foreplay.

 

They stumble into Newt’s bedroom, hit the bed and then stop, clumsy and desirous and self-conscious and both equally, utterly floored.

“I’m afraid I’m not terribly experienced at this,” Newt is flushed, his gaze cast down, sheepish, embarrassed.

“Well,” Tina sits next to him on the edge of his bed, toes off her shoes for something to do, “I’m no expert, either.”

They exchange a glance – quick, but affectionate – a shared incredulity at where they are, at how they’ve come to be here, in this moment, together. The room is dim but warm, and Newt’s hair is sticking up where she’s touselled it, and his bowtie is undone. Tina reaches for it, tentatively, and, when he doesn’t object, she pulls it loose altogether – finds herself holding the worn silk scrap like a child would a comfort blanket, weaving it absently between her fingers.

Newt gently rests a hand on her knee – his mouth has quirked into a dry smile, his gaze still on his feet.

“What?” Tina nudges him, still winding his bowtie between her thumb and forefinger.

“No – nothing,” Newt shakes his head, “it’s inappropriate.”

“If there were any time for inappropriate thoughts, Newt,” Tina raises a sardonic eyebrow at him – and Newt laughs, soft and boyish, and shakes his head. He’s still blushing.

“I was only thinking,” he speaks, after a moment’s hesitation, “that if we were – almost any sort of creatures other than humans – I’d know better what to do than I do now.” He hazards a glance at her expression. “Sorry, I told you it was inappropriate.”

Tina only finds herself giggling, gently exasperated with him. Not least because of course that’s probably true. Newt Scamander absolutely must have a greater practical knowledge of the mating rituals of bowtruckles and demiguises and mooncalves than he does those of actual human beings, magical or otherwise.

She flops backwards onto the mattress, idly stretching out her legs. Newt’s gaze momentarily fixates on her bare ankles – and then he lies down next to her.

The silence prickles. There’s energy in it, the low hum of anxiety and warmth and possibility between them. Tina wants to ask him – though perhaps it’s inappropriate to ask him –

“What?” Newt prompts, softly.

Tina bites her lip, casts him a curious look. “Which is your favourite?”

“Favourite – creature?”

“I mean,” Tina studiously glances away again, up at the ceiling now. “Which is your favourite of the ways your creatures – ”

“Oh,” Newt has gone very red indeed. “Well. The nifflers bring each other treasure. Although I’m rather short on that sort of thing myself. Mooncalves sing. And the bowtruckles do something involving rather a lot of saliva which isn’t appealing at all – although of course they all seem to like it.”

Tina finds herself giggling again, still fingering Newt’s bowtie. Newt smiles sheepishly up at the ceiling.

“Still, I suppose there’s something nice about – thunderbirds.”

“Thunderbirds?” Tina glances at him. “What do thunderbirds do?”

“It’s all very courtly and noble,” Newt seems to be considering his words carefully, remembering, “there’s lots of bowing and calling and flying in formation… and then they – find somewhere suitably comfortable to land and they – start to preen one another.”

“Preen?”

“Well,” Newt shrugs, awkwardly, “I suppose it’s more like – nuzzling. Touching.”

Something in Tina’s chest flutters faintly at the thought.

“They start at each other’s necks and then – the flanks and – ” Newt swallows, “other places. There’s some evolutionary advantage, I think, to grooming each other before they – to make sure they’re both clean, free of parasites or other potentially infectious skin conditions – ”

Trust Newt to introduce the thought of _potentially infectious skin conditions_ at this specific moment in time – Tina’s heart rate hasn’t slowed any, though, which isn’t helped by Newt abruptly meeting her gaze –

“I could show you.” His eyes are wide and earnest. “If you’d like me to – ”

She nods, before she can stop herself.

He rolls onto his front, props himself up on his forearms, hesitates only a moment before brushing her hair away from her throat – his expression serious, concentrated – then he leans down, and presses his mouth to her neck.

Tina inhales sharply. It feels – Mercy Lewis _it feels_ – good isn’t the word. Rapturous. Reverent. Sacred.

Her eyes have fluttered shut of their own accord.

Newt breathes kisses against her skin as if he’s breathing prayers. His movements are deft but slow, measured – he brushes his nose against her, strokes careful fingers along the neckline of her blouse, kisses and kisses as if he’s sipping from her, tasting her. His breath is warm, his mouth soft except for where, perhaps accidentally, his teeth graze her throat and she clenches a fist in the fabric of his shirt, too shy to ask him to do that again but – oh – oh she wouldn’t mind if he did, she truly wouldn’t.

“There,” Newt murmurs, “it’s like that, I think. A little.”

Tina swallows, her mouth dry, her face hot, a slow pool of desire gathering somewhere beneath her naval.

“I can see why the thunderbirds like it so much,” she manages, her voice rough with an abrupt, starving need for something she can’t name – except that she wants him to keep kissing her like that.

Newt smiles, just a little self-consciously. “Yes. Well. I’ve always thought it looked pleasant.”

“Newt?”

“Yes?”

“What do the thunderbirds do after the – preening?”

“Well,” Newt bites at his lip, “that’s when it all gets rather a lot less courtly and noble, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Tina contains a tremulous smile, “how much – less?”

And Newt puts a hand on her jaw and kisses her, deeply. As if he wants to forget everything in the world but kissing her, as if he wants to die from kissing her, as if he couldn’t live with himself and not be kissing her any longer –

She kisses him back, dragging him closer across the bed – one of his hands slips beneath one of her thighs and she finds herself instinctively throwing her leg across his hips, fitting herself to him, discovering, somehow, exactly the right ways in which their bodies might find resting places in each other.

 


End file.
